


not all roses

by deniigiq



Series: Dumpster Fires Verse [12]
Category: Daredevil (TV), Deadpool - All Media Types, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: Anxiety, Depression, Gen, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Schizophrenia, Trauma, i know its novel for me too, like woah yall actually pretty serious discussions of it, matt has trauma from generally being himself, people get help though no one dies, peter is 18 in this one, wades boxes are a bit violent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-23
Updated: 2018-07-23
Packaged: 2019-06-15 04:12:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15404694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deniigiq/pseuds/deniigiq
Summary: The time Peter found Wade screaming, full-volume, at nothing ten stories up was the moment he realized that, despite all his advice and good-natured ribbing and his insistence that he had everything under control, Wade was not fucking okay. And that wasn’t going to change.(Team Red struggles with mental illness; they do their damnedest to work with it.)





	not all roses

**Author's Note:**

> wow hi sorry for the wait between installments. I have temporarily left the bad place (the UK in summer is a fucking trainwreck, no thanks) and have been in the good place (California in summer is heaven) with my beloved for the last several weeks. I'll be back to the bad place in about a week and can update more regularly then. 
> 
> Some warnings: There are frank discussions of schizophrenia, depression, suicide, trauma, anxiety and PTSD in this. It's not as fun and cheery as the other ones. Please do what you need to to keep yourselves safe.

Wade cried almost entirely in vulgarity. He had a curse for every other tear that fell. He sniffed hard and tilted his head back as if doing so would help him contain the tears. The real tears. Wade’s fake tears were familiar and comical, his real tears were almost always angry.

At eighteen, Peter had lived just enough to start to realize that Wade had some serious problems. He wasn’t sure how he’d missed it for so long, but the older he got, the more aware he became of Wade’s schizophrenia and his chronic pain and his use of humor as a way to protect himself and the people around him from himself and the people around him.

It hit him hardest when he looked up on a patrol one day and realized that Wade wasn’t shouting at the people down in the street below. He was shouting at himself, furious, pissed off about a conversation which only he could hear. He was agitated, pacing and jerking erratically. He lashed out a handful of times, swiping at something behind him before scurrying away to resume his pacing.

Wade had always had voices, Peter had known this from the start, but they seemed to be getting worse, getting aggressive, lately.

Wade had told him about the voices once, when he was coming out of a bout of fairly severe paranoia which drove him to rattle between confining himself in small, secure places--cabinets, bathrooms, closets--and throwing himself up among the rooftops, unable to bear a wall, any wall, between himself and the world around him.

He confided in Peter that, sometimes, one of the voices in his head told him that what he was experiencing wasn’t real. It was some kind of game, some kind of story that he was just along for the ride for. Because of this, the voice was impulsive, encouraging him to defy others’ expectations in the hope that that would jostle things around enough to make a break in the foretold chain of events. Wade said that this same voice pushed him to go further with the work he did; it wasn’t enough for him to kill someone, that voice wanted him to maim the body, fuck up the scene, to be creative, to evoke a reaction. Doing this to other people wasn’t enough for this voice, sometimes. Sometimes, it wanted him to do the same shit to himself.

There was another voice, he explained, which wasn’t violent in the same way as the other one; it knew what was going on and had practical suggestions for what to do next. He thought of it as a soldier voice, a commanding officer. If he was in trouble, it was this voice which screamed at him to “FUCKING RUN” or “Nose, eyes, toes, hammer.” This voice was the one that reminded him constantly to do laundry, eat dinner, clean the guns, remember his fiancée. It was a little obsessive. It freaked out when a given task was not immediately completed and it screamed until it was.

The problem was that when the paranoia got bad, both voices got louder, and when both voices got louder, Wade sometimes forgot that they weren’t real people and started looking for them, thought they were following him. It made him paranoid, which made them louder, which made him paranoid, which made them louder, over and over and over again in a vicious cycle which eventually ended with him having a breakdown or going to the emergency room for medical intervention.

If he left them alone, he explained, he was fairly certain they’d help him find a way to kill himself for good. And that was bad, he said, because he wasn’t quite sure if he was ready to go yet.

The time Peter found Wade screaming, full-volume, at nothing ten stories up was the moment he realized that, despite all his advice and good-natured ribbing and his insistence that he had everything under control, Wade was not fucking okay. And that wasn’t going to change. This horrible struggle and the pain which plagued him perpetually, which sometimes made him stop in the middle of a planning session and say with an entirely straight face “I can’t do that today, we need an alternative,” were part of what made Wade who he was and no amount of therapy or medication was going to change that.

And that realization, that there was nothing anyone could do to make Wade ‘better,’ was heartbreaking but freeing. Selfishly, Peter was glad that Wade had kept these things hidden or distant from Peter when he was younger. That shit was scary. The helplessness was scary. Wade in full panic attack was the stuff of nightmares, and if he’d experienced that any younger, he probably wouldn’t have been able to maintain the relationship that they had built.

Wade hadn’t hurt him, of course he hadn’t hurt him, but he’d reacted hard and fast to Peter’s touch during his panic attack that night. He’d thrown Peter several yards away and had locked a pair of guns on him for a full minute before he managed to break through whatever the fuck was going on in his head and realize exactly who his target was. He’d gone dead still, staring at Peter coolly, seriously and that was when Peter knew that he was about to break down. And break down he had, but only after he’d made himself scarce in the blink of an eye. It took hours to find him because when Deadpool didn’t want to be found, you could be damn sure that Deadpool wasn’t going to be found.

Peter had found his way into one of Wade’s saferooms and broken the handle off the bathroom; he’d sat with Wade in the tub while Wade swore and sobbed and rocked back and forth. He wouldn’t let Peter touch him, so the two of them just sat, tucked up on either side of the tub, silent but for the terrible sounds of Wade’s grief and pain.

When it had subsided, hours later, and when Peter was swallowing hard while trying to get Wade to drink some neon-colored Gatorade, Wade had thanked him and apologized and kept apologizing. He was devastated that the way he’d crawled out of the ditch this time had involved putting Peter’s life in danger and, too exhausted to keep up the mask, he told Peter evenly that he’d entirely understand if Peter didn’t want to work with him again, or hell, even be around him again after that show. He promised that he’d understand, wouldn’t be offended, wouldn’t be a dick about it.

“Wade, I’m not going to stop being friends with you because you have PTSD,” Peter told him. Wade laughed an ugly laugh.

“No, bud,” he said in a flat voice, “Don’t worry about the PTSD, I’m not even bothered by that shit. I’m talking about the Schiz. This shit?” he gestured to the tub around him, “This is just the tip of the fucking iceberg. It’s like this. I can’t think sometimes, can’t talk, can’t focus, can’t stop fucking moving. Can’t do damn near anything. It’s like depression had a baby with ADHD and LSD. And that’s a whole fucking lot. I don’t know how Ness put up with it; I dunno how anyone puts up with it. I don’t know how _I_ put up with it.”

“Does anything help?” Peter asked quietly. Wade laughed his ugly laugh again.

“She’s dead.”

“Can I help?”

“No, you’re not listening. She’s dead.”

“She can’t have been the only thing, Wade.”

“You’re right, she makes it better and oh, so much worse.”

“Wade, I’m trying to listen here. Tell me what helps, even the stupid things. Just so I know in future.”

Wade stared at him, tired, worn out, exhausted. Peter heard once that anxiety attacks were like running a marathon for your body. Wade didn’t need an interrogation. He needed to sleep.

“Okay,” Peter sighed, “Okay. Hey, let me help you get home.”

Wade gave him a tiny, appreciative smile at the change in subject and nodded, then let Peter help him climb out of the tub.

 

 

Wade told him about a week later that he’d decided to go back to therapy. Peter hadn’t realized he’d ever gone to begin with. Wade gave him an extremely judgmental look.

“Look, I know I seem like I’ve fucking lost it, and given, uh, last, you know, I can totally see how you’d get that impression. But I’m not a fucking idiot, Spidey. I’ve been dealing with this shit for about as long as you’ve been alive. It’s just hard to get back on the wagon when you’ve fallen out of the habit. You miss a pill, miss an appointment, and after that it’s hard to remember why you even put forth the effort to begin with. “ He paused and fidgeted with the straps of his holster. “But I’m going back, my doc said she’s missed me,” he gave a self-deprecating smile, “Can’t deprive a woman like that of her weekly entertainment, you know?”

“Bi-weekly?”

“Don’t try your luck.”

Wade got a bit better after that.

 

 

Matt cried in soft hiccups and sniffs. He dug his hands into his hair and tried to breathe himself calm. He took his glasses off and rubbed his hands over his forehead and occasionally, he swore quietly, as if each word was a prayer.

Peter worked out that Matt cried quietly because he’d never really been allowed to wail or scream or carry on when he was growing up. Either he hadn’t been allowed to or no one had cared when he had, so he’d just done everything he could to keep attention away from himself.

He started to put these pieces together one day after Matt fell off the face of the earth and didn’t come back for nearly a month. Even then, he only came back to say that he was sorry he’d been out of contact, but he needed some more time off and to please stop calling him. He told them this in a t-shirt and jeans and bare feet and it was absolutely gut wrenching.

Matt was always in control, even when he wasn’t in control he was in control. His body naturally fell into tidy, neat movements. Same went for his appearance. Matt almost always looked like he’d been in a barfight or a car accident, but he wore suits every day. He kept his hair neat, he kept his glasses clean and his scruff reasonably trimmed. He shaved when he went to court.

There were times when this act fell apart though, for example, Matt became extremely uncomfortable in situations which required him to act up to the class behaviors expected of a lawyer. He didn’t know anything about wine. He’d never been on a boat, never flown in a plane, never been out of the country, or even the state. He didn’t frequent museums or theatres and not just because he couldn’t see anything in them, he’d rather go to the gym or out to dinner. His health-nut identity stemmed from his acute sense of taste rather than a passion for fine cuisine. (Matt was constantly on the lookout for something he could eat on the go that wouldn’t make him vomit. It was a surprisingly low bar.) He was into music, but it wasn’t the kind Peter had expected him to be. Matt gave less than a rat’s ass about classical music. He was bored by it; he was fascinated with rap, with hymns, acapella stuff, and spoken word poetry. He was interested especially in beatboxing.

At first, Peter had rolled his eyes and written this off as Matt being obsessed with New York in general and Hell’s Kitchen in particular, but one day Foggy mentioned off-hand that Matt had been a foster kid since he was ten and it hit him like a wrecking ball that Matt hadn’t done a lot of those things because he’d never even had the opportunity to even consider doing them. By the time he did have the opportunity to participate (as much as he could as a blind man), he hadn’t had the cultural education to understand them the same way that middle-class people did. As such, they served as confusing, boring, reminders that he was out of place or not the intended audience.

Peter had gone to visit Matt the week after he’d shown up in bare feet and had ended up having to climb through the window because Matt wouldn’t answer the door. Peter crept around the sparse place until he found Matt sitting on the ground on the far side of his room, with his knees tucked up to his chest, trying to hide his misery from the world, even himself.

Matt had depression. Bad depression. He refused to say anything about it beyond that.

Peter sat down next to him and asked him if he wanted him to call anyone and Matt told him that he was fine, that this would pass, that it was just a hard day. He told Peter to leave him alone, but Peter found that he couldn’t make himself go.

Matt’s room smelled like paint and sweat, like he hadn’t opened the windows for a while. There was blood staining his bathroom sink. Blood on a razor on the tiles next to it. There was broken glass and several bags of uneaten takeaway food in the kitchen. The blood smeared on the sheets told Peter that Matt had been finding solace in unconsciousness.

“How long have you been sleeping?” he asked gently while Matt tried to swallow down his sobs.

“I don’t know,” he answered.

“It’s Friday; what’s the last day you remember?” Peter pressed carefully.

Matt was confused. He didn’t know it was Friday. He couldn’t remember what day it had been the last time he’d been awake. He didn’t remember when he’d cut himself shaving or when he’d last eaten. No, he didn’t remember what day it had been when he’d come to talk to Wade and Peter.

“Do you have a doctor?” Peter asked.

“No, I have a fucking social worker,” Matt said bitterly, “Again. Some shitheads down the block conspired and called the fucking APS because apparently when a blind guy looks like shit a few times, that’s suddenly everyone’s damn business. Came into my house and found whatever they were looking for. Won’t leave me the fuck alone, started sending people down to keep doing welfare checks or some shit.”

 “Where’s Foggy?” Peter asked so they could both ignore the slight ease in his heartbeat. Matt pressed his forehead into his knees, exhausted, miserable.

“He’s scared, I’m scaring him. Stops by every day.”

Peter wondered if Foggy wasn’t the one who put in the call to APS.

“He wouldn’t do that,” Matt corrected without looking up. Peter knew he hadn’t been talking out loud. Matt had been thinking of it himself.

“He promised me he wouldn’t,” Matt insisted. He sounded like he was trying not to start crying again because he didn’t actually know.

“How can I help you?” Peter asked. Matt huffed.

“I just want to sleep.”

“Do you want to die?” Peter asked. Matt said nothing.

“Please don’t die,” Peter told him.

“It’s too much work,” Matt finally said. It took Peter by surprise.

“What?”

“It’s too much work, suicide. It’s too much work. Tried when I was a kid. Almost got there, but it’s so much work.”

A horrifying revelation which would haunt him for a million years. He squeezed in close to Matt, felt him flinch a bit, but stayed there.

“I don’t want you to die,” he pleaded, “Do you think? You could tell me about it? The time you tried?”

Matt pushed him away and resettled with about a foot of space between them. He wouldn’t look at Peter. Tucked his fists up just above his ears. Peter could hear him trying to control his breathing.

“You don’t have to,” Peter said, “I just wanted to see if you were having the same kind of feelings as you did that time—”

“I was fifteen,” Matt said. It made Peter’s chest feel cold. “I tried a few times before then, but I was fifteen when it almost worked.”

“What did you--?”

“Not important. It didn’t work. Doesn’t feel the same as now. Just wanted my dad.”

Peter blinked.

“Go see him then.”

“He’s gone.”

“Got a grave?”

“Yeah.”

“Go see him.”

“If I see him, I might get those feelings again.”

“Why?”

Matt still didn’t look at him.

“I’m tired,” he said.

“Matt, why?”

“Because I miss him. Because if he were here, he’d just understand. He always understood better than anyone else, even Fogs. Fogs gets it, but not like Dad. Dad just. He just knew. He knew before I even knew, I think. If I saw him I think I’d want to be with him like I used to.”

“Did your dad have depression?”

Matt snorted.

“No, Dad had anxiety. Real bad anxiety.”

“Would he want you to kill yourself?”

“I don’t want to talk anymore,” Matt said.

Peter was at a loss. He wanted to call Foggy. He decided he’d leave and call Foggy.

“Double D I think you should talk to the social workers when they come.”

“Never helps,” Matt said in the tone of a man who’d been playing that game for a long time.

“Things have changed a lot since you were a kid, maybe it’ll be better this time,” Peter told him.

Matt finally turned his head toward him. His eyes were fucked. The red rimming them made him look even more vulnerable as he tried to find Peter’s face. He seemed genuinely conflicted.

“People get more training on disabilities and trauma, now,” Peter encouraged.

Matt didn’t say anything, his eyes kept flicking around trying to find Peter’s.

“I don’t want special treatment. I want to sleep,” he said.

Peter sighed and stood up. Matt slowly followed him. When he got to the window, Peter glanced back to see that Matt had already curled up under the covers. He noticed Matt’s phone on the floor and returned to scoop it up and plug it into its charger. He left it on Matt’s bed with him and climbed back out the window.

A few days later he got a text that said simply “Thanks.”

 

Peter was formally diagnosed with an anxiety disorder about three months into his undergrad. He’d expected it for a while, now. He'd known something wasn’t quite right since the Vulture. He packed up his shit at the dorms and moved back home with Aunt May and things started to ease up again. He took some tablets and did some therapy and listened closely to Aunt May as she taught him the things that had worked for her over the years. Some of them helped, some didn’t. He was grateful anyways.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Dumpster Fires doesn't have a particular timeline so it does jump around a little bit to make things more interesting. Don't worry too much about putting things in any particular order because I don't.


End file.
